Forgiveness and Compassion - Latino Style

My left lower jaw aches from clenching my teeth. My right arm is throbbing with rage. And I’ve got a zit on my chin that just won’t go away. I am angry. I mean ANGRY. You might not recognize it because I’ve got that good girl face firmly plastered in place, but my body knows, and it won’t let me ignore the truth.

I have a love-hate relationship with anger. I love being angry because it makes me feel so…well…big. I hate being angry because it consumes my body and if left alone long enough turns to hatred, which feels like black ink running through my veins. I didn’t learn how to be okay with being angry during those so-called formative years of zero to seven. Passion is not a word I would associate with our household. I never heard my parents argue, nor did I see them cry. In our house, we were not sad or angry. Then I married an Italian guy from New York who, in his own words, is very comfortable with anger. Life has a way of bringing us what we need to learn to find our way to balance. What would it be like to be comfortable enough with anger to sit with it, express it and let it go instead of allowing it to rage through me like an uncontrolled fire that takes out 25 homes before being tamed?

I want to tell you about the time when I hated a colleague at work. This was not a garden variety personality clash. I really, really hated him. The only thing he did wrong was he reminded me of my Venezuelan ex-boyfriend. Obviously, this guy from south of the border deserved my wrath.

I was living in England on a two-year assignment. This Latino wanted my job when my tour of duty was complete and in order to gain exposure, could I please staff him on my projects? From the Grinch Who Stole Christmas hardness of my heart, I told him that there were better qualified people. As thin as glaze on a donut, I layered a veneer of helpfulness over my contempt and suggested he seek out similar projects in Latin America. The most amazing thing happened – he did just that. And now I was even angrier. Would he stop at nothing to get what he wanted? How non-martyr-like. The venom filling my veins was spilling everywhere. I recruited another colleague and every chance we got, we spent our time bashing this unsuspecting muchacho.

A strange phenomenon happens when anger turns to hatred. It starts to destroy the body from the inside out. The day came when I could physically feel the damage I was inflicting…on myself. I made a promise to God, myself, and several other human beings that I would no longer gossip about my compadre. And by God, I stuck to it. Even though at times it hurt like hell, not one more negative word passed through my lips. I turned down each and every opportunity to say something disparaging. I was even told I wasn’t any fun anymore. I even went so far as to say nice things about him once in a while.

And then a grace-filled miracle arrived. Literally, it happened over a weekend. Somehow between Friday and Monday, the hatred vanished. It hadn’t just seeped away like water down a slow drain. It had been removed and replaced with what felt like…admiration. This guy had guts. He asked for what he wanted. He accommodated when the answer was no, but kept his eye clearly set on the goal. He was flexible like a tree in a storm when faced with obstacles. He moved with the direction of the resistance instead of against it and stayed rooted in what he hungered for most. He knew how to honor his Sacred Hunger. I became his cheerleader. I supported him at every chance I got. When he finally moved to England, he asked me for guidance on all things…big and small. I felt blessed to be asked. Spirit had worked with me to teach me I had to release him and then I was released.

But what to do right now with the insidious flicker of anger burning in the pit of my stomach? And the clenched jaw? Oh yes. I am angry at my husband. My rights – as I define them – are not meshing well with his expectations of what he wants me to be. I’m pretty sure he’d say the same thing about my expectations of him.

As I stomp to the cafeteria for lunch, I am hell bent on having a brownie. Not because I am really even hungry for a brownie. But because I am Hungry. Hungry with a capital H is always uncomfortable because it is calling for something new. I want to leap out of myself and eating a brownie is the quickest, surest, most familiar route to leaving. Instead, I need to listen to my Sacred Hunger.

I ask for help. I pray to release my need to change anything. By acknowledging the pain of thinking I wasn’t being heard and thinking I wasn’t being respected, I turn the full force of my compassionate attention towards my bruised and aching heart. And then I make a decision to remember all the ways my husband loves me, from the diamond earrings at Christmas to the way he picks up the coffee cups I leave around the house. From how he is gentle and kind to my 87 year old aunt to buying a newspaper so we can do the crossword together.

I remember that when I withhold love from another, I withhold it from myself. Shoving my pain and anger down with a brownie won’t work because it isn’t what I am Hungry for. I want compassion for all the times I was not heard, all the times I was not respected, and forgiveness for all the ways I did not listen, all the times I chose to disrespect another. Forgiveness and compassion. My Latino friend taught me well.

The choice between a brownie and forgiveness isn’t always easy. One bleeds and one feeds. Choose forgiveness when you can. And when you can’t, forgive yourself for the brownie. You’re doing your best. We all are.

Blessed Be.
Sandi